


Déjà Vu

by Virodeil



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Gen, Grey areas, Hurt/Comfort, Reincarnation, identity crisis, sensitive topics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:26:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6785146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Black hair, black eyes, a childish face, a childish voice – why is it all familiar? Not even the owner of those traits knows why, and neither can she explain why those broken, intense blue eyes seem just as familiar. All that she knows are the nightmares of fiery death and the reality of broken dreams and promises, and so does he. Then five little ones are added into the mix…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: A Dream?

**Author's Note:**

> 1. I’m not a native speaker of English here, and I’ve known Star Wars only since a few months ago, so things might be hiccuppy. The prologue has been beta-read by Malicean, but the next chapters haven’t. Still, much thanks to Mal for the beta, and any mistakes that you see are of course mine, not hers.  
> 2. This is not a steamy romance, not an OC romance either, although there will be romance in it down the way, and the summary might lead to a different conclusion in one’s head even at third glance. If you cannot bear reading character study and friendship and family themes – with babies and little kids in it no less – and fluff more than others, please do not continue reading. Similarly, if you cannot bear reading fics where Jedi are not all kind and compassionate and good, you might wish to leave.  
> 3. Tips, critiques, neutral comments, personal opinions and even useful flames are welcome. As I said, I’m flying blind here, pun fully intended, so I’m bound to crash at some point. But I’m determined to do my best, and would love your help for that.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last moments are always the most vivid…

Blue, blue sky.

 

Blue, blue eyes.

 

And then, it changes.

 

Fire leaps everywhere: molten liquid, dancing tongues, acrid glowing fumes.

 

It rushes to me, envelops me, chokes me, and on the centre of the conflagration is a pair of yellow, fiery eyes.

 

Two other beings scream with me, from _inside_ of me.

 

And with that, as with any other reoccurrence of the nightmare, I wake up with heart pounding, with a silence scream of horror, denial, disbelief, and pain lodged tightly in my throat.


	2. Chapter 1: Déjà Vu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When dreams come true, one marvels. When nightmares come true, one… marvels also?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words between quotation marks here are supposed to be spoken in Bahasa Indonesia, but translated into English in reality to avoid reading hiccups. (Suggestions about the problem of representing the languages are welcome.)

It feels… eerie, like a dream. This is what I’ve been hoping practically since I knew the meaning of “adoption” and what it entails, and now…

 

Three tiny, cherubic faces peeking out of the blankets barely move, peaceful in sleep. Tufts of black hair, vaguely recognisable as being wavy to me, lie on the three pillows, uncovered for now.

 

They are perfect, lying there in the baby buggy unfortunately meant just for twins, which I’ve bought just now alongside other paraphernalia and supplies.

 

I’ve always hoped for a pair of twins: one girl and one boy. My not-so-enthusiastic ventures into romance didn’t amount to much, but women don’t need to marry to be able to adopt anyway.

 

And now I’ve got a set of _triplets_. True, legally they are my big sister’s children, given my low rate of salary, but Nessa did confess to our family that she hasn’t any passion about little kids.

 

My hand reaches out towards the lumps underneath the green, purple, and yellow blankets, but then retracts again. I don’t want to disturb their sleep, before I’ve got to.

 

I’ve got to admit to myself, though, that in a way I feel unworthy to be their mother. Other than my inability to provide for them, there’s also the fact that they’ve still got their own birth _family_.

 

They’ve got their own mother, my neighbour in fact, who’s got six other children of her own before she found out she’s pregnant with _triplets_. They’ve also got their own father, a motorbike fixer…

 

My jaw clenches, my hands as well. The longer we’re held up here on the curb outside the maternity hospital, the more doubtful I’ll be. Where’s Nessa? She promised she’d be here _now_!

 

I stand up, readjust the various straps criss-crossing my body, and look round as best as I can over the top of the baby buggy’s half-closed canopy. Out here by the road, we’re like vagabonds…

 

There’s the air pollution to take into account too. Plus, my wristwatch showed it’s nearly midday, a few minutes ago. Sound pollution will follow suit, on the lunch rush, then. Doubly bad for the babies.

 

Nessa hates it if she’s contacted when she’s driving. But if her car doesn’t show up soon, I’m going to harass her. I’m a _mother_ now; my consideration is no longer just myself or Nessa.

 

I crouch down again, try to conserve my energy, try to distract myself with mooning over my new babies, try to forget that – _no_ , just… relax…

 

But just as I’m getting more relaxed, with one hand thrown over the baby buggy to prevent it from sliding away and the other hand playing with the green blanket of the nearest triplet…

 

“Hello,” I growl into the receiver of the phone, which has just rung, after fishing it hastily from out of my waistbag. “Where are you?” Nessa, just in time.

 

But I _definitely_ don’t like her answer of: “Still trapped out here. Just go on to the restaurant by the hospital, okay? I’ll meet you there. Hopefully I’m free of the traffic jam soon enough.”

 

“Could’ve told me earlier,” I hiss, quite irritated by now. I’m trying _not_ to think about how to navigate the not-so-smooth, not-so-deserted curb on the way to the said restaurant with _all_ these.

 

But she just _laughs_. “Motherhood changes you,” she remarks amusedly. “Glad I’m not the mum in charge.” Oh, we’ve decided to raise the triplets together, but… well, she’s spot-on.

 

It still doesn’t change the fact that we’ve been out here for a quarter hour for _nothing_ , though, and I’ve still got to bring the triplets safely to the restaurant while being encumbered by these bags.

 

“Don’t take too long.” What can I say otherwise? Her car can’t sprout out wings and fly here, after all, just as my eye can’t be one hundred percent good even with the thickest specs available.

 

I’m beginning to rue deciding to audition for a discounted musical tutorial on the same day as when I’m picking up the triplets from the hospital… Fewer belongings to carry could help much, right now.

 

Nessa sounds apologetic, in her farewell. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that, in addition to the baby buggy and the baby bag, I’ve got to carry my violin and guitar cases _plus_ my humongous backpack.

 

It doesn’t change the fact that we won’t get anywhere if we – no, _I_ – don’t move _now_ , too. So, sighing and grumbling, I stand up again–

 

And promptly return to crouching with a whimper. My head spins! What’s wrong with me? I was okay this morning, before I went for a shopping spree for the little ones, and I was okay just now too.

 

The spinning, oddly and unfortunately, doesn’t abate the longer I stay still. Dizzy spells aren’t new, for someone who’s got hypotension problems like me, but… but…

 

I grit my teeth, and force myself to stand, to ignore how the world seems to tilt every which way, to blink away the darkness clouding my paltry sight. My body won’t defeat me.

 

My ears ring with stuffy silence when I manage to stand upright. My hands fumble numbly with the handle of the baby buggy, even as I’m fighting to stay vertical. What’s wrong with me?

 

No, no, I can’t walk in this condition, whatever my pride says to the contrary. I’ve got _babies_ to consider now. Better wait till the spell ends on its own. The mint inhaler might help wake me up.

 

But where is that damned thing? I can’t remember. I can’t move, too, or I’ll tip sidewise and never get up again. I need… I…

 

I stagger from a new, harder attack on the insides of my brain. There seems to be something wrong under my foot, but I can’t care less about it right now.

 

I drop heavily on my haunches, leaning almost bonelessly against the baby buggy, which strangely doesn’t slide far. I feel cold and clammy, all over. Is this what people call “shock”? But _why_?

 

Somebody touches my shoulder. Nessa? Mami? Papi? Or somebody else? I don’t understand what the person is saying, regardless. My brain feels sluggish and numb.

 

But I do register it, somehow, when the same person tries to pry my hands away from the handle of the baby buggy. I think I say “No,” but I’m not certain. I can barely hear anything.

 

One person multiplies into several. They talk all at once, panicked, but why? Hands pat my shoulders, try to relieve me off my bags.

 

I let them. As long as I’m not separated from my babies, I let them. And they don’t. Hands usher me onto something that feels like a bed, then one, two, three bundles are set on my lap.

 

The sounds, faint and nearly incomprehensible, shift several times. We’re moving, maybe, but three wriggling bundles are in my possession, so I don’t mind, I don’t care.

 

I’m coaxed into a lying-down position, when the sounds are suddenly dampened, leaving only strange beepings. Something is fitted over my nose and mouth, then sweet, cool air fills my airway.

 

My brain wakes up slowly but surely, like an unfurling flower bud. My ears follow suit, then at last my eye. The sight and sounds – and _smells_ – that greet me are no more comprehensible, however.

 

The _being_ that’s fitting what might be a blood-pressure measurer round my left forearm seems to be made up of metal, _entirely_ , with too many appendages attached to its body. It also talks like a robot.

 

Worse, I can’t understand any word of it, save that it’s most likely a question, judging from the tone. Is this a prank? But I was alone, and Nessa wasn’t due to arrive for some time yet.

 

The robot-like being leaves after the measurement, thankfully. I quickly yank away the oxygent mask, sit up and look down at my lap, where _all three babies_ are issuing distressed noises.

 

Great… No help from Nessa and Mami, no way to tell where we’ve ended up in, too. And come to think of it again, where are my belongings? If the babies fuss because they’re wet or hungry…?

 

But what shall I call them, to get them to calm down? I haven’t even named them. Their birth parents left the naming to Nessa and me. I can’t call them One, Two and Three, can I?

 

The eldest, a girl, wrapped in purple blanket, seems to be the fussiest, so I pick her up first, carefully, awkwardly. Despite the unusual circumstances, however, I find myself amazed by the eexperience.

 

Now’s the first time I truly pick any of them up. The nurses in the maternity hospital helped put them into the baby buggy and arrange everything in there, so I didn’t actually touch them.

 

And now, I find I’m loathed to let her go. If I had two more set of arms, her brothers, now staring up from my lap, would be in my arms too at the same time.

 

She’s so _trusting_. There’s a special kind of thrill, when she stops whimpering and snuggles deeper into my arms and begins to nuzzle my breast, seeking for nourishment.

 

I’m her mother, to her young mind. Judging from how her brothers are beginning to squawk and reach up with their hands and feet, they have the same thought in mind. I am _their mother_.

 

Reality asserts itself, nonetheless, when _all three babies_ are beginning to bawl in earnest. I’ve got no milk to offer even the one in my arms, after all, and _all of them_ seem to be quite hungry.

 

Trying to balance a kicking and punching newborn in one arm, while attempting to soothe _two_ more kicking and punching babies on one’s lap with _one_ free hand, is _hard_ , I’m finding out.

 

The situation is exacerbated when somebody, though thankfully a _human_ this time, walks into the scene of chaos and seems to ask me using the same unintelligible words as the robot did.

 

I throw him a look, then stare pointedly at the displeased infants crowding my person. I don’t know how to ask for the baby bag, since we don’t speak the same language, but I do hope he gets the hint.

 

God takes pity on me, it seems, because he goes out again and returns with _all_ my belongings, with the bags stuffed in the baby buggy. I give him a grudging smile.

 

It takes some awkward, ginger manoeuvring to lay first the eldest, then the middle, then the youngest on the empty space of bed behind my back. And all the while, the man just… _gawks_.

 

Well, I’ve got to admit, I doubt I’d take it kindly if he helped me. I may be inexperienced when it comes to taking care of newborns, especially three at once, but I think I won’t like any interference.

 

I don’t mind that much, however, when he just helps supporting the nursing bottle for the baby girl, while my hands are occupied with the same task for her brothers. After all, I’ve only got two hands.

 

The close proximity to a stranger, a man no less, discomfits me a little. But then again, everything leading up to now right from those dizzy spells has been discomfitting, not to mention bizarre.

 

Speaking of bizarre… Why’s the man not garbed in a doctor’s or nurse’ uniform? Am I so far removed from everything that the uniforms are vastly different? But here’s a hospital, right?

 

I frown at his deep-blue shirt, whose shoulders sport what look like military rank bars, though my hands never waver. He meets my gaze, when I look up, but I don’t know if he’s frowning back or not.

 

But his eyes are _blue-green_ , that I know, and that _unnerves_ me. Indonesians have black or, much more rarely, dark brown or dark grey eyes. Tourist, then? Or visiting doctor?

 

Different language. Different people. Different _everything_. What’s happened to me and the babies? It’s feeling more and more like the substance of a mystery novel!

 

The maternity hospital is small and not so well known, though well maintained. I doubt foreign mothers choose to deliver their children… there? Here? No other explanation to be had, though.

 

Still, if this man’s a doctor, why’s he so awkward now, as he’s helping me situate the brothers on my shoulders to burp? He’s awkward with the sister too, and she’s just _one baby_.

 

I’m thankful that he’s helping us, truly I am. I’m even more thankful that the little ones aren’t accidentally harmed in the process. But really, the string of situations I’ve been facing defy credulity.

 

It shows, when we’ve put the triplets back in their buggy, and I’m beginning to return the formula-making paraphernalia into the baby bag. He stares at the various things like he’s _never_ seen them.

 

I stare at him. He gazes back at me. I think both of us are confused… He, more so than I am right now, especially when I’m pulling out my phone to call Nessa.

 

The plan is crushed before I’ve got the chance to delf further into the phone for her number, though. There’s no signal here! Odd. I’ve got no problem in the maternity hospital before…

 

The man reaches out a hand, palm up. Dejectedly, and feeling no harm in doing so, I drop the phone into the waiting hand with a listless shrug. “No signal,” I try to explain.

 

He stares at me for a moment, perhaps puzzled by my language, or maybe attitude. But he soon fiddles with the phone, even going as far as turning it here and there, as I check round the buggy.

 

The additional baby supplies and paraphernalia that I’ve bought, stuffed in the compartment under the buggy, and also in the pouch at its back, and even on the free space inside it, are still there.

 

At least the triplets won’t starve, and will be rather well taken care of for some time, then. They just need _names_. It’s their basic right. They need those for introductions, at least to this helpful man.

 

My family bounced names round tentatively since a month ago. We didn’t want to jinx it, in case our neighbours changed their minds about this adoption, so there’s nothing definite yet. And now…

 

I had three names stored, ones that none of my family ever knew, though there’s no spare chance to research about them yet. No time for that though, now.

 

I look up from the sleeping triplets. The man is still busy with the phone, although hopefully he’ll return it to me in tact. No time like the present, right? So I tap gingerly at his hand.

 

He looks up and stares at me silently. The cerenity is incongruously a bit disturbing, so I hasten to introduce myself, while pointing at my chest, “Valerina.” Then I simply point at his chest.

 

Thankfully, he seems to get what I wish to know, for he pronounces carefully something that sounds like, “Llobee,” in the same calm tenor. Is he Welsh? The name sounds Welsh…

 

Before I can ask, though, he gestures at the baby buggy. Assuming that he wishes to know the names of the triplets, I do just that, as best as I can without words.

 

“Vinolita,” I pronounce, gesturing at the baby girl in purple blanket lying on the middle, then hold up one finger to indicate that she is the eldest.

 

“Vinosena,” I continue, gesturing at the baby boy in green blanket lying on the left, then hold up two fingers to indicate that he is the second in the set.

 

And, “Vinodika,” I wrap up, gesturing at the baby boy in yellow blanket lying on the right, then hold up three fingers to indicate that he is the youngest.

 

He seems to ask something, or maybe tries to confirm something. I really hate this inability to communicate… I can’t detect his facial gestures, and can’t deliberately make them myself.

 

Maybe he thinks, rightly, that I’m frustrated, because then he points at the triplets one by one, starting from the eldest to the youngest, before repeating the word, clearly and slowly.

 

Did he perchance just say “triplets”? Can I trust him and my own deduction and think that he’s saying “triplets,” that he’s helping me learn this foreign language?

 

I decide to take the plunge. I repeat the word as best as I can to him, while waving at the triplets as a whole. To confirm it, I even say it again afterwards.

 

He nods, or I think he does. The artificial lighting in the room is good, but not defined enough for my sight, unlike natural illumination. Well, I’ve got to take what I can get.

 

I repeat the word to myself, relishing how it reverberates in my throat and moves in my tongue. I love learning about new languages and cultures. This case is extreme, true, but it’s still the same.

 

He… smiles at me, I think, and nods again. I smile back at him. The first word that I learn is how to address _my children_! What new mother won’t be flattered by that?

 

Well, but reality is eager to reassert itself, too. I’m a _new mother_ , yes, an _inexperienced mother_ , and now my _temporary_ helper is only a _foreigner_ man who’s as awkward as I am in handling newborns.

 

Wallowing in misery won’t help us, though. So I reach out a hand, palm up, for my phone. I’ll hopefully find some connection outside of this building. Or at least, I’ll be able to gauge the location.

 

It’s surprising, and flattering, that Llobee snags my cases and backpack onto his own shoulders, after returning the phone to me. He shakes his head when I try to relieve him off those, too.

 

I give him a smile, as grateful as I can make it, then snag the baby bag for myself. Manoeuvring the baby buggy through places with this dim lighting won’t be easy, but at least it’s _something_.

 

He leads me out of the room. I try to be at least two steps right behind him, but it’s hard, and not only because of the insufficient illumination that I’ve expected.

 

I’m continually distracted with the scenes we’re passing by. How not? We seem to be in a hospital, judging from the atmosphere and some familiar clues like racked lories of tools and meals, but…

 

We’ve just passed by an _orange_ somebody with odd head and _eyestalks_! And Llobee walks on as if it’s a usual occurrence. And in addition to that, there are various kinds of robot _everywhere_.

 

Where are we? Or _when_? I’m beginning to doubt that I’m still in Indonesia, however ludicrous it sounds, or even _on earth_. Are we somehow _in the future_?

 

My hands on the padded handle of the buggy tighten on that thought. _The future_. It would explain so many things. And yet, I _don’t want to believe it_.

 

It’s hard to deny, though, when a woman spots us and hurries towards the buggy, cooing in that foreign language, or maybe _yet another_ foreign language. She’s followed by two more, three, five…

 

We’re crowded in no time at all, and I can understand _none_ of what they’re babbling and cooing at the babies, and not because they’re speaking baby-talk.

 

Llobee extricates us just as swiftly, but the damage is already done. I’ve got to try to calm the triplets before we can move on, while terrifying thoughts buzz in my brain. Worse, we’re now a _spectacle_.

 

People, wherever they are, are the same in some regards, I’m finding out. They like to gawk at other people’s misery and talk about it. Llobee doesn’t help much. He seems discomfited, himself.

 

It’s a relief, in a way, when we’re finally free from the bulk of the building and the gawking people. The cool, fresh air invigorates me as well, in addition to the various greeneries about.

 

But now I’m finding out that the lighting isn’t far better than the artificial illumination inside the building. How come? It was _midday_ when I got dizzy! The fainting spell didn’t feel that long.

 

Llobee looks back at me, and reaches out a beckoning hand. I wasn’t aware that I’ve halted on the middle of the paved path. I didn’t realise, either, that he looks so young and… short.

 

I hurry along as fast as I can. But, oddly, he doesn’t continue walking when I’ve drawn level with him. He stares at me instead; puzzled, maybe, or thoughtful.

 

I stare right back at him. He’s just a few centimetres taller than I am, surprisingly, so it’s easy to meet his eyes. I thought all Caucasians are tall… He must be just one-hundred-and-sixty-something.

 

Even odder, he seems to… slump, after a little while. So it’s not only me who’s frustrated by all these. Pity, I accidentally make somebody else suffer, a total stranger no less.

 

I’d better let him go, then? But I also hate the idea of braving this alien world alone. Oh, I’m selfish at the core, I know that well, however much I despise that part of me.

 

Maybe, I can provide _us_ some way to go about this? I can learn the language from him; I might even be able to know of some place to stay for a while from him. How to convey those to him, though?

 

Still, I _must_ try. “Llobee?” I begin tentatively. Next, I point at the buggy, say the word that he taught me, then point at myself and say my name. Hopefully my face looks bewildered enough.

 

It seems he gets the message, since he nods and begins to walk again, but I can’t be certain. It’s nice, still, not to stay standing for so long in the open. People have begun to gawk at us again…

 

Despite my hope for him to help solve the problem of our lodging, however, I hesitate anyway as we halt by what looks like a tiny wheelless car. Do I trust him enough to go along with this, actually?

 

Too late to back down, maybe, and I don’t have any other choice, but my heart still squeezes uncomfortably when the man helps me transfer the triplets into their basket.

 

I truly hope I haven’t made a bad judgement. A young man helping a young woman find a lodging can prove disastrous for the young woman. But the triplets do need the lodging.

 

I distract myself: trying to get comfortable in the lone passenger seat, as Llobee’s loading the baby buggy somewhere behind me; not easy, given how big the baby bag and basket are, so it works.

 

There’s no more distraction to be had, unfortunately, when he slips into the driver seat, and the _canopy_ of this odd car slams shut automatically. The engine goes alive with a hum, and we’re away.

 

I can see _nothing_ outside. Everything’s a blur. How fast does this peculiar thing go? The engine’s droning is soft and… effortless. An expensive vehicle, then? Is he wealthy, if so?

 

I am… uneasy. What does he want with me, if he’s wealthy enough for a great car? Can I just barter some things with one or two days of lodging for me and the little ones, so I’m not indebted to him?

 

Then comes the question: What can I use for bartering? My musical instruments? My phone? My tablet computer? None of those will have any value to him!

 

The slowing of the car doesn’t molify my anxiety any. Now I can see lush trees outside, and people – _humans_ – walking by, as we climb a wide winding street. It seems to be the typical _countryside_.

 

There’s nothing like this in a megapolitan like Jakarta, and I was in _Central Jakarta_ just hours ago, at the most. What has happened to me and the triplets?

 

I clutch hard at the padded sides of the baby basket, but not only because the car is performing a sharp turn while on a forty-five-degree angle upwards.

 

I’m truly _alone_ , then, if my conjecture that we’ve been flung however many years into the future – or even another world entirely – proves correct. No Nessa, no Mami, no Papi… _Nobody_.

 

I stare at the triplets, who are beginning to wriggle and make discontented noises, without comprehension. Nausea churns in my belly, as chill not caused by the outside seeps into my bones.

 

I’m _alone_. The babies can’t be counted, since they’re too little still to lean on mentally and emotionally, so I’m _alone_ here, wherever here is. How to get back? Can I even get back?

 

I’m aware that we’ve stopped. I’ve even realised that the canopy has popped up, given the gust of cool breeze caressing my face and the basket. But Llobee has to tap my shoulder to truly rouse me.

 

Even then, he has to tug lightly at my upper arm to get me out of the seat. I use the task of fitting each triplet with a cap round the head and ears as the excuse to linger afterwards.

 

I simply don’t want to… go, to see the further evidence that I’m instead a foreigner in an alien world, to begin a new life here and forsake everyone and everything that I’ve known. I just _can’t help it_.

 

It doesn’t help much, that we’re now standing right in front of what looks like a house perched on pillars, accessed by wooden steps, pretty similar to some Indonesian traditional or coastal homes.

 

Outer looks can be deceiving, after all. Sadly, I don’t have any other choice or distraction right now. Llobee is beckoning me onwards, and the car’s canopy has just clamped down behind my back.

 

Encumbered only by the baby basket plus its precious contents, I follow him. The sloping lawn under my shoes, with its watery, earthy smell, comforts me, and gives me courage to ascend the stairs.

 

Surprisingly, once we’re inside and Llobee’s clicked on the light, I find out that the space is… barren. It looks like a living-room, or a parlour, but it’s… empty. The floor isn’t even carpeted.

 

It’s not surprising, then, that he leads me across the room to another door tucked on the far corner of the opposite wall. My footsteps reverberate on the wooden flooring, in tandem with his.

 

The next room turns out to be populated, but sparcely. It seems to be a kitchen plus dining-room of some sorts, judging from the various pans hanging on the wall, though I spot no stove underneath.

 

Llobee motions at the table set on the middle of the room. Taking it as invitation, I place the basket of whimpering babies on it, then wait for him to sit before I follow suit. He’s the host, after all.

 

        I place both hands flat on the table, disregarding the light coating of dust. I feel… weird. If I close my eyes, this can feel like an expensive holiday in the mountains. It’s… _wrong_.

 

I’m actually _glad_ , when one of the triplets breaks into a squall, followed by the other, then the last. I’m grateful for the distraction, though not the smell of urine now permeating the basket.

 

I’m even gladder, when Llobee hurries away, only to return with the baby buggy and bag. The triplets may make a good distraction, but there’s no reason to prolong their suffering for my benefit.

 

I slip a hand underneath the blankets, checking the nappy of each baby. This way, I find out that the nappy-wetter is the one with the green blanket… Umm, Vinosena? His siblings just _accompany_ him.

 

I extricate him carefully, awkwardly. To my utter surprise, though, Llobee spreads the spare rubber sheet and another blanket on the table before I can put him there, without any request from me.

 

I shake my head, when the man then motions at the other two. No, they’re just _empathising_ with their brother. I smile wrily at him, hoping he’ll help me further, with them this time.

 

Before that, though… I fish out a cloth wipe from the baby bag, mime dipping it into water, then motion with it at the nappy-wetter flailing and screaming on the table before me.

 

How _relieved_ I am, that he hurries away to the sink that I didn’t see before on the far corner, and comes back with a basin of warm water, and even an unasked-for towel.

 

And he _blushes_ when I beam at him in gratitude. Sweet… It makes me want to blush, though, in turn. Crazy. I didn’t expect for this kind of awkwardness with him, somehow, when I fretted about things.

 

I end up bathing Vinosena, given the large amount of warm water available. It makes me rush here and there in panic to prepare everything, so that he can be quickly bundled warmly once more.

 

Despite the hastle, though, it’s… amusing, somehow, that I’m coaxing Sena to cease squalling in Indonesian, while Llobee’s singing in his own tongue to… Lita, judging from the purple blanket.

 

We’re like a married couple, I feel, as I’m taking Lita from him next, after returning Sena to the basket, and he’s soothing the neglected Dika in the same way. It’s… shocking, and a bit odd.

 

No wonder, that we just stare at each other when the triplets are once more stowed in their basket, now smelling strongly of baby-product perfumes and each suckling on a pacifier.

 

Well, but I can never stand awkwardness, especially awkward silence. “Thank you,” I tell him with a smile, while waving my hands at the various paraphernalia scattered on the table and round it.

 

He nods, before saying something, which I assume is the equivalence of “You’re welcome.” So I imitate him, to which he nods again, then I ask, “Thank you?”

 

Shortly, I’m learning my third word in this language. Far better than being trapped in awkwardness, in my opinion. Llobee seems to share the view, thankfully. He’s even taking the lesson further.

 

I’m learning the alphabets like a kindergartener now, from something that quite resembles a usual tablet computer, while feeding the triplets with water, having decided better about the pacifiers.

 

Alphabets turns into writing Llobee’s name, then mine, with which I find out that his name is actually spelled “Ljobin.” Then we move to nouns about the kitchen, then verbs…

 

then I’m actually learning about where the utensils and appliances are and how to use them, while replenishing the thermos of hot water for the babies’ formula and watching Llobee make dinner.

 

Not a bad start, really, and I do hope – _very, very much_ – that this will persist as long as we’re stuck together in here. I’d welcome any bright light in this predicament.

 

I’d welcome a chance to have some dinner in peace and take a shower afterwards, too, actually, but Lita prevents me from taking even the first spoonful of whatever’s in the bowl Llobee hands me.

 

I’ve totally forgotten that, although Sena has relieved himself, Neither Lita nor Dika have, yet. Worse, Llobee dares to chuckle at me, as I’m groaning into my hands.

 

He ends up reerecting and situating the baby buggy in… I don’t know where, still _chuckling_ , while I’m dealing with Lita using yet another basin of warm water that he’s provided for us.

 

I’m torn between grousing and sniggering at my own predicament. In the end, I do neither, as I’m busy coaxing Dika to offload in the sink, using my mum’s technique, to prevent further disaster.

 

Well, _hopefully_ , though I’m quite aware, from Mami’s stories about Nessa’s and my babyhood times, that we can’t expect such thing from babies, especially newborns. I must gear up for night vigils.

 

I’m beginning to appreciate baby-caring mums everywhere, now, especially my own mum. Taking care of a baby is _hard_ , especially when there are _three_ of them at once, and today is only _the first_.

 

On returning, preceeded by footsteps tapping lightly on hollow wooden floor, Llobee seems to suggest that I stow away the triplets before meal, by motioning at the basket then at the door.

 

But I’ll be too anxious about them to eat if so, I think. So I shake my head, and look down at the content of my bowl, after supplying the triplets with their sound-making toys.

 

I’m a picky eater, usually, but right now my belly feels like a Black Hole. Besides, the smell of the vegetable-and-meat-cube stew – sour, delicious, and a bit sweet – is somehow… familiar.

 

Anyway, it’s _food_ , and hopefully Llobee’s not drugging me, or even poisoning me. So, after saying a short meal prayer, I look up at him, nod in greeting before meal, then dig in cautiously.

 

He follows suit. I didn’t realise before that he didn’t touch his meal because of the same cause. Such great guests: I and my charges have kept the host away from his meal, one he made himself no less.

 

Llobee falls away out of my focus, though, once the first spoonful comes in contact with my tongue. My hair stands on end. The taste and texture are indeed _familiar_ , somehow.

 

I’d usually call this blend of sour and salty and sweet and bitter odd, unpalatable even. But now… And worse, Llobee’s staring at me again, with a solemn look, as if he _knows_.

 

What’s wrong with me? Does he know what’s going on and just _doesn’t tell me_? Because of the language barrier? Or because of something else? Something nefarious, even, maybe?

 

I plop the next spoonful back into the bowl, feeling sick. And just so, a much larger hand folds over my trembling fist gently, hesitantly. My eye meets that of blue-green.

 

The hand squeezes warmly, before retracting itself. I slump against the top of the table, twining my ankles with the legs of my stool. His gesture, as well-meaning as it is, only makes me more agitated.

 

He says a short something, softly, while miming bringing a spoon to his mouth. I take it he means “Eat.” I repeat that automatically, somewhat in a daze.

 

Now I wonder, if my ease of learning this language stems from something _other_ than my lasting fascination with cultures and languages. Was I… _another person_ … before… _this_?

 

My thoughts skitter away from the topic before it can fully form. No, I can’t break down now, I _mustn’t_. It’s too early. Everything’s still too strange. I _can’t_.

 

My hands curl into fists again. It’s getting harder to breathe, too. Llobee wraps his hands on mine; he anchors me; but it’s _not enough_. I need… I need…

 

What’s that sound? It’s _familiar_. Music, so _familiar_ , singing of safety, of belonging, of… _home_ , coming from _everywhere_. I _remember_ pesky heavy makeup, elaborate layers of dresses…

 

I shiver. Feelings of camaraderie, righteous anger, defensive care and deep-rooted love seep into my marrows. The music fades away afterwards, but the feelings linger.

 

Llobee’s staring at me again, _knowingly_. Is he the originator of the music? But there’s no instrument on him… The sensation of unnerving déjà vu has thankfully faded alongside the music, though.

 

I smile shakily at him. He smiles back, and squeezes my twitching hands. Huh, true, then, he must be the culprit, however he did that. I don’t care, for now. I just don’t want to experience that again.

 

I try mightily _not_ to think on the sensations the taste evokes, as I’m finishing the content of the bowl. I shake my head, when Llobee proffers another ladleful of the stew to me, once the bowl’s empty.

 

I learn the word “No,” this way, followed naturally by “Yes.” It’s better than thinking about or doing… other things. I don’t know what I’ll do, once I’ve mastered this language.

 

It’s a releif, that I and the triplets are then ushered back into the empty vestibule, then past one of the two doors set against the opposite wall, nearly indistinguishable from the wooden panelling.

 

The room turns out to be a bedroom, with an adjoining tiny bathroom big enough for a sink, a toilet seat, and a shower stall. The baby buggy stands beside the small, minimalistic bed framed by steel.

 

There’s a small writing desk opposite the buggy, with a stool under it, and there’s also a chest of drawers on the other side of the buggy, with its top half taken by shelves, but they’re all empty.

 

Empty, like me. I guess it’s truly a new beginning, for me and the kids, but it still feels _chilling_ , to see all these. And there’s no telling till when Llobee’s willing to shelter us.

 

We visit his bedroom next, set right beside mine, identical but for the framed photo on the bedside writing desk and the lack of a baby buggy. He doesn’t often live here, then? Or is this house new?

 

On returning to my assigned bedroom, I find out that, other than Dika, the triplets are all asleep. Maybe they liked the inadvertent rocking while I was carrying the basket here and there?

 

It takes only one whimpering cry from him, anyway, for Llobee to scoop him up, as I’m setting down his siblings in the buggy, hopefully for the night. I can’t repress a smile on that.

 

The sight of one baby girl and one baby boy lying side by side, though, creates a havoc in my mind, similar to the episode in the kitchen. I hastily look away, and motion for Llobee to set Dika down.

 

He gives me a look, maybe the same knowing look, but I pretend I don’t notice, this time. My poor nerves have been frayed too thin today, by so many things, while it seems the day isn’t ending soon.

 

Dika seems to have another idea, still, regardless of my preferences, though Llobee seems to back down for now. He erupts into whimpers again, when the man puts him down beside his siblings.

 

I’ve got no other choice. Snagging one of the three cocooning padded blankets from underneath the buggy, I swaddle him with it as best as I can, in anticipation of the cooler air outside our room.

 

I doubt I could deal with _three_ sulking babies, right now. Better leave the other two sleeping in peace here, while I’m sorting things out with Llobee with this one limpet clinging to me.

 

Well, that’s my first thought. I can’t stay irked with him for long. How not? He calms down almost right away once I’m rocking him in my arms! Sweet… I’m the one who doesn’t want to let go, now.

 

Llobee ushers me out of the room, once I’ve pulled the canopy of the buggy down on Lita and Sena, to hopefully give them more warmth. To my relief, though, he’s not aiming for the kitchen.

 

My stay here feels more secured, as he unearths the rest of my belongings from the odd car and helps me put them in my bedroom. At least I don’t have to worry about lodging tonight.

 

I’m surprised, though, that it’s evening already. I’m rather worried, too, that there’s little illumination outside. I can’t see anything at night with no artificial lighting!

 

One hand sneaks down, fingering my waistbag, which has never left my person since this morning. Torch; at least I’ve still got my torch, and a few spare batteries. Safe. Don’t think about later, not yet.

 

Uh, but the air feels rather cold, and damp, , while I’m wearing just a thin short-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of jeans trousers. It’ll be even colder throughout the night, then? What about my babies…?

 

Still, I appreciate the chance of being on the move, and we do spend the time touring each and every nook of the small wooden house and under it. I do, really.

 

I don’t think about other things when I must focus on my paltry sight, that’s why, and that’s quite a welcome change. Dika seems to enjoy the rocking too, or maybe my arms, since he’s now asleep.

 

This way, I also find out why the house is built on pillars: The ground isn’t level, sloping sharply sometimes. In fact, now I know that the back door, where the kitchen is, is level with the ground.

 

The impromptu tour lends me a sense of security, of stability, despite the minimal illumination. I don’t know if Llobee in fact intended for that effect, but it does work, and I’m grateful for that.

 

I could do _without_ the bag inspection afterwards, though, despite its usefulness to show him that I’ve got but a spare T-shirt in all my belongings here. He’s a _man_ and I’m a _woman_ , after all.

 

It heartens me, that he’s just awkward as I am in this, but _still_. I don’t know, too, how to convey that I don’t usually wear something I’ve just bought right away, and the T-shirt sadly fits that criterion.

 

I don’t know what to feel about the T-shirt, actually, seeing that the familiar, blue globe of earth is presented proudly on its front, supported by a pair of hands. Homesickness threatens, just on that.

 

I set it aside, in the end. I can’t bear it, knowing I might never return to everything and everyone that I’ve known all my life.

 

All _this_ life, maybe… No, no, better _not_ think about that. I’m actually glad, that Llobee picks up the T-shirt and plasters it to his front, gives me a look, then points at the T-shirt while… asking something.

 

I assume he wants the T-shirt, so I nod at it, give a relinquishing gesture with my hand, and turn away to check if the triplets are still asleep. It’s a win-win solusion, I think.

 

A bit of payment for all his generosity, as well, though quite paltry still. I can’t stand being indebted to anybody, other than my family. Maybe I’ll find something or some way to repay him better, later.

 

I don’t know how he does it, but he somehow entices me for a second helping of dinner, once we return to the kitchen, sans the triplets. The eerie music might have something to do with that.

 

The T-shirt is laid on the table by the dishes, but I don’t pay heed to it. The blue-green orb shown on the screen of his tablet computer interests – and unnerves – me more.

 

“Naboo,” he says, while pointing at the unfamiliar and yet so familiar globe. I shiver. The name is _so familiar_. I can’t be surprised, thus, when I can spell it using the new alphabets on the first go.

 

I’m not surprised, but _ill_. How can I _know_? Who am I? I am Valerina Evandia Subagio, right? But then why do these things seem to resonate with me? I’m _not_ from round here!

 

He changes the display to another planet, this time with white scattered throughout it in addition to blue and green, then announces, “Alderaan.” My nausea just got _worse_ , on that.

 

A remote part of my mind whispers something, faintly; maybe a name, maybe a concept, but I force myself _not to care_. I’m _not from round here_!

 

I hate it, that he looks at me knowingly again. I hate it even more, that I can _perfectly_ write down the name of the planet, as if I’ve ever done that countless times before. _Who am I?!_

 

Thankfully, he ceases torturing me with those, after that. Instead, blushing, he shows me images of women’s paraphernalia, including underware, while motioning at me each time.

 

Another kind of torture, really. But at least, though blushing just as hard, in this way I can somewhat communicate the fact that I do need those. And this way, I learn the words for “this” and “that,” too.

 

The mixed senses of displacement and familiarity get stronger when he next shows me various… space-faring ships, I think, in a sundry of poses too: in deep space, nearing a planet, in atmosphere…

 

My gaze lingers on what looks like a small yellow fighter-plane and a small graceful space-ship. They look particularly familiar. I can’t help the inexplicable longing that fills me on seeing them.

 

It’s a relief, in a way, that one of my charges erupts into hysterics before I can explode, myself. I flee the dining table as if electricuted. Llobee follows, fortunately or unfortunately.

 

Somehow, I’m not surprised it’s Dika who’s wailing as if the world’s ending, though his siblings are waking up as well, bothered by his loud noises. I’m beginning to recognise their subtle differences…

 

“Clingy, aren’t you?” I mutter at his howling, flailing form; partly fond, partly exasperated. He’s not wet, and he’s rejecting the bottle of water Llobee hands me too.

 

As expected, he begins to calm down once I gather him into my arms. Tired and irritated, I pinch softly at his pert, tiny nose with a grumble.

 

My hand got thwacked by his fist, for that. I laugh; and just so, my irritation evaporates. Swinging him round and chattering at him got me his cooing delight, moreover, buoying my own spirit.

 

I’m puzzled, that Llobee turns out to have placed Lita and Sena into the baby basket, but set Dika down in there anyway. I begin to understand his purpose only a moment afterwards.

 

He points at the baby bag, at the triplets, at me, at himself, then at the T-shirt that he’s lifting up with the other hand. We’re going shopping for my necessities, then? But he’s done so much for me!

 

Maybe I look doubtful, for he repeats the gesture more insistently. When I shake my head, he just hooks the baby bag up on one shoulder and hands the baby basket to me.

 

Huh, I never knew he could be – and would be – this… assertive. It’s almost… adorable, and I rarely say that about men. Crazy me, thinking of thoughts like this during such a delicate, difficult time…

 

I lift a hand, palm outwards, hoping that the gesture transfers as “Wait a moment. I need some time.” Without waiting for his response, though, I quickly get to work.

 

The triplets need warmer clothes, if we’re to have an evening outing in a place as cool as this. Some contents of the baby bag must be discarded for the time being and replaced with necessities, then.

 

Llobee seems to catch up fast with my train of thoughts, anyway. In a trice, he’s already helping me with Sena, while I’m dressing Lita in the additional thick socks, trousers, mittens and jacket.

 

After the baby bag is repacked, with just a tap on my shoulder and a gesture at the door, the man’s away with the said bag, presumably to his car. After dressing Dika, I follow suit with the baby basket.

 

We feel truly like a married couple, now. It’s… wrong, somehow. Llobee’s sweet, undoubtably, but he’s… _not the one_ , both to me and to the part of my mind that I dub “the déjà vu place.”

 

Strolling at his side down the supermarket lanes after a short car-ride, with him shouldering the baby bag and with me rocking the baby basket in my arms, the feeling morphes into a slight discomfort.

 

It’s worsened when, by ones and twos, people from both genders and all ages begin to crowd me and coo at my equally discomfited charges. What’s with these people and babies?

 

Or is there something about triplets that’s so important to their culture? Triplets aren’t as numerous as twins, as far as I know, but they’re only a passing curiosity round the globe – or rather, on _earth_.

 

Huh, this can be a very, very big problem. Unfortunately, I know no way to ask or confirm about this to Llobee, who’s acting as a buffer again now.

 

The longer we linger in the supermarket, though, the more I’m convinced that triplets hold a special value to these people. The wheelless, _huge_ hovering cart that Llobee’s steering gets full _fast_.

 

I widen my eyes pleadingly at him, when yet another person dumps a tin of something into the cart, while carefully putting _yet another_ tiny plastic disk onto the blankets in the baby basket.

 

He just shakes his head. He doesn’t look surprised, though, I note. But maybe he’s a native of this place, hence he’s perfectly aware of this oddity, and maybe it’s also why he’s been helping me.

 

Strange, and interesting, but unnerving. I can do nothing but go with the flow, thanking everybody with the sincerest smile I can muster. I’m grateful for the gifts, but can’t wait till we’re away.

 

Llobee helps me sort the gifts on a more or less secluded corner, explaining with gestures the purpose of each item whenever possible, noting the items that I prefer and replacing those I don’t.

 

He also uses the chance to teach me about numbering and this place’s money, which turns out to be the little plastic disks people have been giving the triplets in equally-great quantity to these.

 

That lesson, alongside my awareness that _I_ actually have no money, makes me more cautious when I’m selecting toiletries and other things for myself, not only because many things here look strange.

 

Even after paying for _everything_ , however, there’s still a pile of those left in the baby basket, though of smaller denominations. I feel even more uncomfortable than before. We’re _not_ beggars!

 

Strangely, Llobee actually _flinches_ away, when I try to hand the changes to him, to repay his help. Huh, is there a lore round here that says money given to a set of triplets can’t be repurposed?

 

I daren’t hand the money to him, because of that, when we’re shopping for my necessities at the clothing store beside the supermarket in the same building, which is apparently a shopping mall.

 

Given that, also, I say “No” when he hands me items which list double digits on the price-tag. I ignore his glare by buying some more baby paraphernalia for my little ones, with the gift money.

 

I may be ignorant of this place’s currency rate and prices, but I doubt double-digits, especially the high-end double-digits, mean well to someone’s purse.

 

I haven’t counted on his tenacity and tricks, though. Before I can go pay for my purchases, he waylays me, holding out a stack of simple but tasteful clothes, whose price-tags I’m forbidden to see.

 

I rue his emerging assertiveness, now. He’s herding me like a naughty child down the lanes of _expensive_ clothes! Buying just one piece of everything I need doesn’t satisfy him, too.

 

In the end, I’m a somewhat-proud owner of three short-sleeved T-shirts, one semi-formal shirt, two pairs of shorts and two others of casual trousers, three pairs of pyjamas, and six underclothes.

 

 _Even so_ , the exasperating man is still dragging me and the by-now-sleeping triplets to a footware store, after an _appropriate fawning_ from many people – including _the casheer_ – at the clothing store.

 

Deep at night, just as the triplets are waking up and whinging for sustenance, maybe because of the permeating chill too, we ride home in an uncomfortable, irritated silence, with big bags in the boot.

 

I can’t fathom why Llobee’s this mad at me, _not_ because of he’s short at least five hundred Credits. If _one Credit_ can buy a large-sized tin of baby formula, _five hundred Credits_ isn’t something light, _at all_.

 

But yes, he _isn’t_ , somehow, judging from how he shoved his purse into my waistbag before we got into the car, despite my attempts to evade his purse-clutching hand. It’s… confusing, and upsetting.

 

We separate into our own rooms still in a stony silence. All three rug-rats are sobbing in chorus by now, but he acts as if he didn’t hear them. Above all, it pains me the most. He seemed to like them.

 

By the time I manage to feed, change, soothe and situate all three of them in the baby buggy, I’m ready to bawl, myself. I’m tired physically _and_ mentally, confused, upset, sticky, smelly, sleepy…

 

I can barely stumble into the bathroom. I can barely remember _his_ instructions about the various places and functions in it. I accidentally exchange the soap for the shampoo, too.

 

The warm shower water doesn’t wake me up. The comfy bed, though dusty and thus sneeze-inducing, doesn’t lul me to sleep either. In the end, I just sit on it, blankly watching the babies sleep.

 

I barely stir, that’s why, when there’s some tapping on the door. How not? The sound barely registers in my brain, which feels like a dull sludge.

 

Still, a vaguely-familiar fragrance manages to wake me up a little, especially when it’s accompanied by a warm mug pressed gently into my hands. Unthinkingly, I lift the mug to my lips and sip from it.

 

Several sips later, I’m awake enough to register that Llobee is kneeling at my side like an attentive servant, dressed in pyjamas, and looking up intently at me. In worry? In anger? I can’t tell.

 

I stare back at him, even more confused than before. “Llobee?” I manage to get out. But he doesn’t answer, just pushes the mug back gently to my lips.

 

When I’m finished with the drink, he just… vanishes, still without a word, as though he’s never there in the first place. That _hurts_ me, I’ve got to admit.

 

I shake my head to that feeling. No, today’s been too tiring already. I mustn’t complicate it with _any other thing_. The triplets are all asleep; I must use the chance to rest as well.

 

Three tiny peaceful faces, peeking out from a sea of blankets and capped down to the ears. I’m truly _their mother_ now. They’ve got nobody else here. I mustn’t doubt myself. They’re mine, I’m theirs.

 

I pull the canopy gently down on their makeshift bed, to conserve more warmth and filter out the dust, then wriggle into my own bed for the night, holding my breath so I won’t sneeze from the dust.

 

Whatever will be, will be. I’m too tired to fret, and fretting won’t give me any solusion to our predicament anyway. I just hope… just hope…


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the calm before the storm, seems like it at least; but even "the calm before the storm" has its own little storms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words underlined and bracketted by quotation marks are spoken in Basic. The words without underline and still bracketted by quotation marks are, as per usual, spoken in Indonesian.

Warmth lands on my face, as I shift in search for a comfier position beneath the soft, heavy blanket. I blink, groan, and dive under. Can’t I get some more moments, _please_? I’ve just fallen asleep!

 

But come to think of it again, who opened the drapes on my window? Mami’s already busy with her food catering business for several hours, Papi’s away at his restaurant for the breakfast rush…

 

Nessa’s rarely at home, too, busy island-hopping with her team of event organisers. And I rarely bother touching the drapes myself, since the window just overlooks a dingy alley.

 

Puzzled and much more awake than before, I creep out of the blanket, and sit blinking on the bed, rubbing my eyes. Sunlight quickly warms my left side, though it somehow feels weaker than usual.

 

When my sight has recovered from the cobwebs of sleep, however, I just get more baffled instead of reassured. Where am I?

 

My bedroom is small, yes, and packed with things, but it’s never this disorganised, or Mami will rail at me till it’s neat again. I never own a blanket this heavy, soft and… bland… too.

 

Come to think of it again, my window isn’t on the same wall as the headboard, and my bed _does_ have a headboard, unlike this one, though it doesn’t boast comfy mattress and pillows and blankets.

 

Where are the boulsters, anyway? Did I drop them during the night? Why am I feeling so lethargic and exhausted physically and mentally? Where is this? I don’t recognise it somehow!

 

The wall opposite the bed, just as brown and “woody” as the floor, boasts only a closed door with a row of clothe-pegs on it to the far right, by the junction with the right wall.

 

What looks like a trashbin is nestled on the opposite corner on the same wall, at the junction with the left wall, while the left wall itself is occupied entirely by a long, shoulder-high chest of drawers.

 

How did a _baby buggy_ come to be here, too? It’s parked with its canopy fully closed between the bed and the dresser. Then again, a baby bag lies before it on the floor. Huh…

 

Even stranger, to my right, there’s another door – a sliding one, it seems – half-way on the right wall, before the wall ends on a bedside writing desk full of _scattered baby paraphernalia_.

 

Uh… Am I still dreaming? There’s been a talk about adopting the babies of Mami’s neighbour friend, yes, but the mum has delivered them just this pre-dawn, right?

 

So why is this room looking like a mum’s room? What’s going on? Where am I? Is Nessa pranking me? Or did I do something yesterday that I’ve forgotten, being too exhausted on all counts?

 

I scratch my head, and look down at myself. Huh, not even my pyjamas, soft blue with wavy silvery patterns, look and feel like mine. Too soft, to boot, with the crispness of brand-new clothing.

 

I look down at the floor to my right, next, searching for my slippers. But what meet my eye are only four shopping bags piled two and two against the right wall by the writing desk. Huh…?

 

Before I can put my bare feet on the floor, though, there’s a series of three soft knocks on the door on the opposite wall, before it opens and admits in… an unfamiliar man, in _pyjamas_ , holding a tray.

 

Reflexively, I cover my front with the blanket. I’m not wearing my bra yet! Where is it? Why’s he here? What’s he doing with the tray? It looks and smells like food…

 

I tract his movements with wide eyes, even more disoriented than before. He puts the tray on the bed right before me, like in stories, but he’s not garbed like a servant.

 

A servant wouldn’t dare perch so casually on the foot of the bed. A servant wouldn’t dare stare at me dead-on, too. My family isn’t employing any servant anyhow. So _who_ is he?

 

I scrutinise him in turn, sparing no thought to the meal laid before me. He looks tired, and I’ve just realised that his eyes are _blue-green_ ; puffy and red, but _still_. A _foreigner_? In _my home_? Since when?

 

“Who are you?” I croak out, uncaring of if I’m being rude to him and his nice gesture. There’s something missing from my memory and I _need_ to know.

 

His gaze turns more intense, if possible, and his face seems to have blanched, whiter than his fair complexion. “Llobee,” he says, wonderingly, then leans forward and grasps my hand.

 

Something tickles my mind on that name, on that sound, but I shy away from it. There’s something _unpleasant_ attached to it; or rather, _a few_ somethings. How can I know that it’s a _name_ , anyway?

 

He grasps my other hand, almost with desperate strength, as if knowing what I’m thinking. From the distance of only a few centimetres away from my face, he whispers a word in a foreign tongue.

 

A word whose meaning I somehow recognise as “No.” But how can I _know_? Why is the image of three identical baby faces popping up in my mind’s eye, in answer to my inner wondering?

 

I lean back, look away. But my eye lands on the completely-hooded baby buggy next, and something else, something to do with the all-round exhaustion that I’m still feeling on waking up, stirs.

 

The three identical baby faces pop up again, now screwed up and pinkish and tear-stained, their owners flailing and bawling. On that memory alone, a heavy weight seems to laden my muscles.

 

I shudder. Now I also notice the violin and guitar cases stacked on the floor in front of the baby buggy, half hidden by what looks like three cocooning blankets strewn haphazardly on top of them.

 

And what’s my largest backpack to do with it all? The man – Llobee? – has just plunked it on the bed from… somewhere… after relegating the tray to the free bit on the writing desk. And it’s _full_!

 

He motions me to the pack. I shake my head. I remember I wanted to pack the rest of my musical instruments that I couldn’t fit into the cases into my largest pack…

 

They’re all in preparation for the general audition, alongside a few other just-in-cases like my tablet computer. But I don’t remember _really_ packing them all up into this bulging mass! I just _planned_ it.

 

But then, why can I _remember_ having to carry this monstrocity in addition to the cases, while steering the baby buggy, on the curb outside a maternity hospital?

 

Why can I _remember_ finding neither a change of clothes nor toiletries for the night in there, then ending up going in an all-round exhausting shopping spree with this consternated man?

 

Why can I _remember_ trying to soothe and take care of _three babies_ , alone and with _this man_? Why can I _remember_ being kept awake nearly the whole night to the point of tears by _those babies_?

 

And why are there baby noises issuing forth from the baby buggy? Why’s it fully hooded like that anyway? And come to think of it again, why is the air feeling like _sunny mornings in the mountains_?

 

I tremble harder. These memories feel so odd, so foreign, yet so _familiar_ , as if I’ve experienced them myself, quite _recently_. I can even _feel_ the weight of a full baby basket in my arms _from memmory_.

 

And why am I now reflexively preventing the man – Llobee? – from pulling up the hood of the baby buggy, with the all-too-familiar basket in his other hand?

 

A pair of wiry arms press me close against a broad, muscled chest, as _all_ the memories band together and rush into my mind, pounding it mercilessly. My tears fall on a pyjama-clad shoulder.

 

I _remember_ , now. I remember it _all_ : the triplets, the inexplicable shift of place and time, the déjà vu moments, the ordeals of baby-care and shopping in an alien place and situation, and _the man_.

 

I squeeze the strong torso tight in gratitude, and bury my face deeper into the crook of his neck in embarrassment. _Llobee_. He took care of me yesterday, and he _still_ takes care of me today.

 

And the babies… I shudder again, prompting Llobee to hug me even tighter. They _did_ keep me _and Llobee_ awake most of last night with one thing or the other. All five of us got little sleep, I think.

 

I squeeze him one last time, then let go, prompting him to do the same. Rubbing the tears off my face, I look away, even more embarrassed, ashamed of the troubles caused by me and my charges.

 

But he just slips the baby basket onto my blanket-covered lap, as if nothing had happened just now, as if it were just an ordinary moment. I’m even more grateful to him for that.

 

Lita, Sena and Dika: time to take care of them now. No time to ponder about things, _especially_ uncomfortable things. No time for breakfast, too, unfortunately, though Llobee brought me one.

 

Leaving the basket on the bed, I crawl the short distance to its edge, balance myself on my knees, and pull the canopy back all the way, with Llobee watching on from nearby.

 

Three uncomfortable baby faces look at me in unison, blinking perhaps from the sudden brightness. “Hello,” I sigh morosely, though with a touch of fondness. “Good morning, Vino. Awake already?”

 

Almost as the answer, Dika lets out a short sobbing cry, to which Lita kicks his legs and coos. Sena just looks at me silently while nudging Lita with his fist, though his eyes are suspiciously glittering.

 

I pick him up first, hoping to prevent him from releasing that glitter into a torrent of tears. “Now, what’s gotten into you?” I murmur at him, while pinching his nose softly in jest.

 

He thwacks my fingers with his fist, and begins to gasp out pitiful whimpers. I snort, even while rocking him gently. “Little sulker,” I tease him with a small smile, while checking his nappy.

 

I lay him on the bed once he’s subsided, then divest him off his warmer attire. This morning seems to be warm, warm enough for me to bring the triplets out for a short sun-bathing maybe,even.

 

Once he’s only wearing his nappy and thinner one-piece, which does include sewn socks and mittens and hood, I reach back into the baby buggy for his brother.

 

This one’s been loudly whimpering since before the canopy’s been pulled back. Oddly, though, he’s not wet either. He just… nuzzles at my breast…

 

Oh. He’s hungry. Good interpretation of baby language, Nina. I’ve been dragged out of bed at least four times last night by their various needs, but still don’t begin to recognise these things.

 

Sighing, I put him beside his brother, divest him off his warmer attire as well, tell him sternly to wait, then reach back into the buggy for the last time for Lita.

 

She’s strangely placid. It unnerves me. “Hey,” I greet her, then goad her by tweaking her nose. She just utters a short protesting cry to that, though. Maybe she’s just more silent than her brothers?

 

I check her nappy anyway, then lay her beside Dika for the same procedure. I don’t know what Llobee’s been doing, puttering on the bedside desk since a short while ago. I can’t glance at him yet.

 

I’ve been dealing with the newborns directly for more than ten times already since I firstly took charge of them, yes, but their fragile forms and state always make me overly cautious.

 

No, not newborns anymore, I’ve just realised. _Day-old_ infants. Their mother birthed them at four-twelve pre-dawn _yesterday_ , and now it must be at least seven in the morning. They’re _a day old_ …

 

I shiver. Llobee’s hand, large and warm and gentle, lands lightly on my shoulder. I shrug it off and shake my head. No, I’m good. I’m just… astonished, and a bit awed. I managed to keep them alive!

 

There are years and years to go, of course, and everything’s still more than uncertain about the four of us even in the near future because of these new circumstances, but I’m glad all the same.

 

That thought puts a smile on my face, even as I spy a pile of soiled baby things in the hamper behind the trashbin, as I’m piling all the bags and cases to the side to free up some path.

 

The smile just gets wider and grateful, if astonished, when my eye lands on the desk from across the room and sees three tiny, full nursing bottles of milk being capped by Llobee.

 

“Thank you!” I chirp in his language, relieved and a little embarrassed, while rushing to prepare the baby basket, and also a small baby bag, so I won’t have to rush back here later for things.

 

A moment after, I sit nursing the triplets one by one at the dining table in the kitchen, while Llobee’s heating up water for their thermos after putting our soiled things into the washing machine.

 

I try _not_ to contemplate how like a married couple we are. Llobee looks so young, relaxed and in pyjamas like this; but then again I look quite young too, and am indeed still twenty-five years old.

 

Huh, again, a thought in a situation like this… But how will I avoid it, if he continues to shelter and take care of me and the little ones? Not that I’m not grateful for all his help thus far, though.

 

Well, a thought for later, maybe. For now I’ll just concentrate on keeping the four of us alive and fed, and learning this place’s language, culture and habits. Those are already an overwhelming task.

 

We relocate to the sun-drenched part of the sideyard, then, and thoughts fly out of my mind. The large, unevenly-sloping spread of lush green grass is marvellous to behold under the morning sun!

 

My sight works best from morning till somewhat late in the afternoon, barring an overcast sky. So, since we arrived here late in the afternoon, I wasn’t aware how large Llobee’s land actually is.

 

Well, truth be told, I still don’t know how far it stretches, since there’s no discernable boundary that I can see. I don’t care about it, anyway.

 

I am – was – no, _am_ – the odd-one-out, among my family and most of my friends, for loving outdoor activities among nature. This spread of nature in a civilised area, therefore, feels like heaven.

 

Llobee spreads what looks like a picnic blanket – though made up of a plastic-like material – on the most-level patch under a tree. But the soft ground and living grass under my bare feet feel _heavenly_.

 

I don’t move away from my spot for that, for some time. I choose to stand in the sun, rocking the triplets in their basket, enjoying everything. Well, the little ones do need their morning sunbathing.

 

Mami often said, to me and Nessa or to other mothers, that it’s good for baby bones and overall health… She’s got many baby-rearing tips, though she didn’t raise me personally after babyhood.

 

No, _no_ , don’t think about her, not yet maybe, don’t think about _any of them_ , those people that I might never… _No_. Look, Llobee’s puttering about with the blanket like an attentive dad. Amusing.

 

But he goes away then, only to go back with a familiar tray, looking fuller and heavier than before. A bulging small bag’s slung over his shoulder, in addition to a big water bottle. I stare at him, baffled.

 

I begin to catch his purpose, though, when he sets the tray, bag and bottle down on the edge of the picnic blanket, before joining me. I can’t help the blush creeping up my face, reciprocated on his.

 

He wants _us_ to have a picnic here? With both in pyjamas and barely covered otherwise? With three contentedly-cooing babies to boot? We look and _feel_ like a family now.

 

But still, driven by the desire for warmth and uncondescending kindness, not to mention companionship, and maybe also _something else_ , I don’t mind the picnic.

 

Our lesson continues during breakfast, when Llobee teaches me the names of the three dishes spread between us. Now I can even say that the food is from Naboo in this language.

 

I’d prefer to learn why those people accosted us and gave gifts to the triplets last evening, but I don’t know yet how to convey that to him, and won’t understand his explanation even if I do.

 

At least, I can enjoy the meal in addition to that. The pink bread slices, slathered with blue butter, taste soft and delicious. The white mush inside the potato-like purple shells is equally so.

 

The leftover stew is still great, too. I even give the triplets a tiny taste of that, and they seem to like it, given how they coo at me in delight in between sips.

 

Llobee and I help them drink some water after that, before I coax each of them to offload their bladders on the kitchen sink, reaching it via the back door, with hope there won’t be accidents later.

 

Afterwards, however, the atmosphere at the picnic blanket turns graver, even tenser. Llobee doesn’t look up, as I return Dika, the last triplet to be taken care of, to the basket, then sit down beside him.

 

He’s looking down at the tablet computer on his lap, gripping it with both hands, as if he wants to break it. I can’t see what’s on the screen; but even if I can, and although I’m mightily curious, I won’t.

 

He respects me; the least I can do is to respect him back. He’s been helping me and my babies very much, as well, on the other hand, so I feel I can’t just stay silent and let him wallow in misery.

 

I touch his shoulder, gingerly. It feels… awkward, and odd. Usually he’s the one who reaches out to me. I don’t know how he’ll react.

 

Thankfully, he doesn’t react negatively. Still, it’s sort of disappointing that he just glances up at me, unspeakingly, before returning his gaze to the tablet computer.

 

He motions at the mostly-empty tray, still without looking up, before I can prompt him to share his burden again. Huh? Does he want me to bring the tray inside and wash the dishes?

 

Or does he want me to finish the single slice of bread left on the plate, and also the last puddle of butter in the bowl? I’m not a little child, to be fed to keep silent!

 

Well, he’s been sweet enough even to bring me breakfast on bed. I can repay him by washing the dishes, at least, and he’s taught me how anyway yesterday. I’ll definitely ask him, though, after that.

 

Language won’t be too much of a barrier, when we can already communicate somewhat decently with gestures and actions. He persisted to help me; I’ll persist to help him, too.

 

I dump the bread into the butter bowl, dump the empty water bottle onto the tray for easier handling, put the bowl beside him, then shift the baby basket to the same position.

 

Before I can carry the tray away, however, he looks up and utters what may be the equivalence of “Hey!” in his language. Still standing with the tray in hand, I freeze and look down at him.

 

He seems startled and _angry_ , or maybe exasperated. But why? What’s wrong with me bringing the tray away for washing? Just into the kitchen less than a hundred steps from here at that?

 

I may be visually impaired, but it’s not a reason _not_ to do anything. Besides, I doubt he’s realised that I’m half blind. Or is there something else that prompted that sharp cry?

 

He says something in his language, in a clipped tone that he used on me only once, when he was clearly exasperated about my reluctance to spend his money. I frown at him; irked and confused.

 

Then I turn away and walk on, all the same. He’s not my father, he’s not my elder, he’s not my leader; I obey just myself. I’m not harming any of us in doing this, anyway.

 

It’s my turn to squawk when, before I can step out of the picnic blanket, there’s the sound of something hard hitting the ground just as hard, then Llobee’s suddenly beside me.

 

He yanks the tray out of my hands, nearly causing the water bottle, perched precariously atop the dirty dishes, to topple out of it. Then, without looking at me, he stomps away to the kitchen.

 

If I could roll my eyes, I would. Still, I glare at his quickly-receeding back. What’s gotten into him? He helps me with the babies and myself; so, doing the decent thing, I must help him in return, right?

 

I sit back down, huffing in irritation and worry. Are we having a miscommunication right now, despite my confidence that we can communicate just well? Or is this _yet another_ culture clash?

 

So why doesn’t he take these possibilities into account? He knows I’m _not_ from round here. I can’t speak his language, after all, and I was baffled by the reaction of those people last evening.

 

Is he that mad at whatever’s in his tablet computer, to treat me like this without ample reason? What’s making him this upset, then? Can I find out? Will he tell me?

 

It’s a bit unnerving, to see the culprit lying haphazardly, screen down, right on the edge of the picnic blanket, to the point of disturbing the blanket and createing an _indantation_ on the soft ground.

 

He’s… violent, then? I wouldn’t know, judging from how he’d been treating me up to this point. Even last evening, he wasn’t this… physical… with his anger.

 

I shouldn’t bother him in whatever way, maybe, judging from this? But it doesn’t sit well with me. There must be a way to help him, without inciting this new-found anger of his.

 

When he returns to his spot, though, throwing himself down on the blanket with more vigor than I’ve ever seen him do, I find myself tongue-tied.

 

Am I cowed by his unexpected show of temper? No. Not really… Not so much… Well, not _too much_ , anyway. I must show that I’m _not_ afraid of him, though, or he’ll trample all over me.

 

So I look at him, with a pointed stare I hope, then motion at the forsaken tablet computer on the edge of the blanket, before gesturing at him. I _really_ wish to help him.

 

Afterwards, raising my eyebrows, I mimic holding the tray, then point at the house. I _need_ to know this too, to prevent future temper tantrums. I never like witnessing anger in someone close to me.

 

For all that, he glares at me, or I think he does. I refused to be cowed, though, thus why he capitulates, I guess. I get some more language lesson as the bonus, for all the unpleasantness.

 

He points at me and says something, points at the babies and says “Triplets,” then links the four of us together with a sweeping gesture, as if saying “You are responsible for the triplets.”

 

Next he points at himself and says something else, points at the surrounding land with what sounds like a combination of words, then links it all with himself, as if saying “I’m responsible of the rest.”

 

This time, though, even if I could roll my eyes at him, I wouldn’t. This problem seems to stem from a personal or cultural beleif about a man’s and a woman’s responsibilities. It’s too sensitive for that.

 

Instead, with a questioning tilt to my head and a frown, I point first at myself, at him, then at the babies, accompanying each gesture with the words that I take to mean “I,” “you” and “triplets.”

 

He nods at that. My frown deepens. I can’t tell if he shrugs or not, to that, since the colours aren’t contrastive enough. But I’m sure he’s not nodding or shaking his head.

 

Still, his lack of discernable, definitive gestures _tells_. My frown turns into a scowl. I repeat the gestures and words, with the scowl still firmly fixed.

 

He turns away, on that, and picks up his tablet computer again. Huh, so it’s how things work for him: Women just take care of children, men do the rest? It rubs me the wrong way.

 

I’m a feminist, in the purest sense. I uphold gender equality. Then again, I’m a strong believer on racial equality and other non-segregations, given how I’m often discriminated, myself.

 

I must be careful, though, here. I _and my babies_ are staying at his home right now, and depend very much on him and his generosity. I don’t know enough of the culture and language here yet.

 

If I must pick my battles… I tap at the corner of the tablet computer gently with my pointer finger. It bobs a little in his hand. Huh, he’s no longer so mad at it, then? He’s not clutching it anymore.

 

He looks up at me, all the same. I point at him, then the tablet computer, then him again, then me. I do want to help him, despite _and_ because of his show of temper earlier.

 

The cause of that burst of anger, for such a calm and composed man, must be worrying or even dangerous enough to be a good threat, that’s why. I wish to be prepared; mentally, if not physically.

 

But, well, he doesn’t even attempt to answer my non-verbal inquiry. Instead, I’m half-willingly entered into an axcellerated course on his language, using the priorly-abused tablet computer.

 

He uses tiny memory-chip-like things he pulls out of a pouch from his small bag, inserting one of them each time into the slot on the side of the tablet computer, to instruct me on many things.

 

I truly feel like a kindergartener now, learning basic things from simple images and simpler words on big lettering. Each memory chip holds a certain topic, too, just like subjects at _nursery_ school.

 

But I can’t help enjoying the returning companionship, the fresh grassy air round us, three sets of giggling as I tickle the babies when I get frustrated, and the startling language course itself.

 

I begin to forgo worrying about the incident, in a while. My heart is lightened. My mind is also fully distracted now, crammed so quickly with new concepts and the words that go with them.

 

And yes, most of those images, though of menial things, are _new_ to me. How not? Aside from the strange dishes and _space-worthy_ vehicles, I’m also exposed to strange occupations, items, _aliens_ …

 

I’ve got to admit, though, despite everything, I feel… reminiscent, as if the tablet computer and the memory chips were once like books to me. These mixed signals are… confusing, and alarming.

 

I’m grateful, that there are many distractions to be had, and that the unexpected language course is taxing enough to melt my brain. It helps me _not_ to think about these feelings deeply.

 

The triplets are on their second bottle of milk and first bottle of water, by now, and I’ve got to carry each of them to the kitchen sink twice more. They even manage a longish nap.

 

And even during the interruptions, the lesson never lets up. Llobee uses the time to teach me nouns and verbs related to babies, baby-care and genders as I work, tagging along like a demented teacher.

 

It’s as if he suddenly must go away soon, and he fears he’s running out of time to prepare me to live alone… Is he truly a soldier, then? Is he on leave?

 

That thought makes me worried, for him and for myself, and unexpectedly it also shoots a pang of loneliness into my heart. But it also drives me to learn even more seriously and diligently.

 

I must be able to speak the language and understand the culture, not to mention this new reality, _as soon as possible_. I’ve been lackadaisical, these twenty-four hours, depending so much on Llobee.

 

I’m not surprised, when he gives me the pouch of memory chips on the apparent conclusion of our cramming session. I’m not surprised either, when he teaches me how to lock the house.

 

I’m pleasantly surprised, in fact, when he communicates that he wishes to bring me and the babies for an outing, though a little wary of well-meaning ambushes. I dress us appropriately.

 

I’m definitely shocked, though, when he brings me and the still-napping babies to what looks like a computer _kiosk_ on the sidelines of what seems like a marketplace, with that odd car of his.

 

He buys me _my own_ tablet computer! Not only that, he also buys me what looks like the blend of a mobile phone and a walky-talky, my own wristwatch though I’ve still got mine, plus _a few_ others.

 

Are these things everyday items, to be sold in a _market-place kiosk_? And what’s he doing? I don’t _need_ these! How can we still shop for _these_ anyway, in the time constraint that he must be under?

 

Worse, the kiosk keeper dumps an amount of Credits that seems to be _more_ than what Llobee pays him for the items, into the baby basket, though he seems to take care not to disturb the triplets.

 

I try to return them, but Llobee halts me mid-motion with a quick grab at my hand and a look. I’ve got no other option but to thank the seller as graciously as I can.

 

We’re away to the fruit stall next, and this time I take care to hide myself and my charges behind his back, as he talks rather animatedly with the seller.

 

It doesn’t work. The seller seems gleeful to have the chance to marvel at the waking-up babies. Meanwhile Llobee, perhaps seeking to distract me, tries to teach me about fruit names.

 

In the end, we got free fruits and free Credits, _again_. Llobee seems to be cheered up by this particular visit, though, so my thanks to the seller is only half forced.

 

Thankfully, we go home after that. Passers-by still halt to admire the triplets and give them Credits, but the prospect of returning to my new sanctuary makes my thanks to them even more sincere.

 

Unfortunately, even so, unlike yesterday evening, Llobee confronts me about my attitude towards the Credit-givers, once we cool down in the kitchen, in quite a serious air.

 

“Nubians,” he says, waving all round him. “Triplets;” he waves at the baby basket on the table between us next, giving them a military salute. “You;” he points at me and gives the same salute.

 

Then he scowls. I sigh, slump backwards, and nod tiredly. He confirms my suspicion, but it’s not a comfortable truth. I _hate_ charity. But it seems these people don’t view it that way.

 

He wants me to respect the _donations_ – or rather, _tributes_ – given by those people to the triplets. He wants me to unbend my pride for grace and sincerity to what still looks and feels like charity to me.

 

I shrug. I’ll think about it later. It’s still too raw, at present. Much time to do that later. Something to occupy myself, too, when he’s gone. Better distract him with other – more important – things now.

 

I learn the words “datapad,” “datachip,” “glowrod,” “chronometer,” and a few other technological terms, in this way. He still seems bothered, but capitulates to the diversion anyhow.

 

He takes me in an in-depth exploration about the house, once I’ve deposited the Credits haphazardly on the still-cluttered writing desk. This time, the tour focuses on the operation essentials of a home.

 

I’m most grateful on the practical lesson about light fixtures, locking mechanisms, the pantry with its cooling and warming units plus spare foodstuff, and this place’s equivalence of cleaning appliances.

 

He insists on teaching me about what seems like this place’s equivalence of e-mail and phone, next. I have to run back to my room to fetch my notebook and marker for some heavy note-taking.

 

I’m relieved, though, that we practise using them afterwards. He sends me a note by mail: “You learn this. - B,” with a video attached. I reply him with “Thank you. - N,” with a random photo.

 

Only when he snorts and lets out a short chuckle do I realise that I’ve attached the photo of a woman’s underware to my note. Groaning, I bury my face in my hands. But I can’t help laughing, too.

 

His chuckles turn freer, more childlike somehow, and before long we burst into uncontrollable spurts of giggling together. The atmosphere turns lighter, less rushed, less harried, less stressful, just so.

 

We exchange nicknames, previously just initialed on our notes, under the same condition. I can’t help laughing out loud when he confesses that he’s nicknamed “Beebee,” or “Bibi” on writing.

 

He’s cute, too, when he blushes and grumbles sulkily in protest. It’s better than his sullenness or panic, and far better than his anger. Sad, that I experience this only in our parting.

 

My embarrassment and his seem to be worth the sacrifice, all the same, when we’re practising first-aid with his large box of first-aid kit. The lighter atmosphere holds me back from outright panicking.

 

The contents look more like a _field hospital’s_ kit than a home set, especially with the thermal blanket and the stimulant shot tubes. My heart squeezes. Their presence alone reminds me of hard facts.

 

He was right to panic. I can barely take care of my charges; I barely know anything else. The lack of comprehension about this language and reality on my part only exacerbates it.

 

We forge on, regardless. He teaches me about the times of day, and how to read time on the new wristwatch. It just reminds me… Where are my wristwatch and waistbag? I didn’t wear them today!

 

Whoa. I usually _never_ went out, even for a short while, without my waistbag of essentials and my trusty wristwatch. Now that I realise the lack of them, I feel naked, even though we’re inside.

 

He teaches me about the washing machine, last. Just in time, because I forgot – and frankly, didn’t have time – to potty-train my little menaces. Six soiled, smelly baby clothes await to be tackled.

 

I try to familiarise myself with the kitchen and pantry, when he’s away in his car, with one-word explanation of “Food.” The triplets, freshly bathed, changed and fed, are taking a nap in their buggy.

 

I _must_ be able to cook for myself, if I don’t want to starve. Llobee bought lots of fruits, lots of bread and lots of butter, but they won’t last long, not even a week, if I depend on them.

 

I must introduce the new formula to the babies too. We got lots of it from the gifters yesterday. The stock dwarfed the current formula by far, when I set them side-by-side on the dresser in my room.

 

Before I can panic too much from the overwhelming plans, though, Llobee returns, softly calling out my nickname and something that may be the equivalence of “I’m home,” judging from the tone.

 

I peek my head out of the kitchen door. My eyes widen a second after, as my sight registers the _many_ big shopping bags at his feet. “What are those?” I blurt in Indonesian, pointing at the bags.

 

But instead of answering the questioning tone, Llobee teaches me how to say it in his language, and ropes me into helping him bring the _heavy_ sturdy plastic bags to the kitchen.

 

I can tell that many of them contain cold things, judging from the moisture beading the outside of the bags, but little else. Some of the bags are even _soft_ to the touch, or… _tinkling_.

 

I don’t have the chance to ask. The triplets rise up in wails from my room just as I’m opening my mouth. Oddly, before I can flee the kitchen, Llobee presses the soft and tinkling bags at my hands.

 

I don’t open the bags. I simply check the babies for hunger or wetness, then carry them in their basket back to the kitchen. There’s no time for exploration, at present, however curious I am.

 

Those little menaces, they fall silent as soon as I touch and look at them. They even coo, when their basket rock inadvertently in my arms. There’s no place to put them on the table, though.

 

“What are those?” I practise the newly-learnt sentence, motioning at the perspirating topless boxes stacked on the table. They look oddly like cases of frozen food, except more elaborate and generous.

 

Llobee says something. I only recognise the word “food” there. I nod, nonetheless, with a great deal of relief. I’m safe! Except… if these aren’t for me…?

 

“Food, you?” I ask, motioning to the cases of frozen food, then to him. He shakes his head, so I venture out again, “Us?” But to this, too, he shakes his head.

 

“You,” he says, nodding at me. I gape, staring at the stacks of boxes populating the entirety of the dining table. If I judge correctly, those boxes may suffice me for at least _two months_ of good eating!

 

How much is it per box, for such a stock? There are _more_ plastic bags under the table and at his side of it, too, I see, as he put the first stack of boxes in the pantry. I bite my lip. This is _beyond_ charity.

 

I can’t deny that this will help me survive, though. This conundrum is so… _argh_! How can I repay him? How can I be self-sufficient _as soon as possible_ , more importantly?

 

Given today’s theme, especially this afternoon’s, I’m not so surprised when, as Llobee retakes his seat again, he shows me boxes of… instant soups and stews, I think, alongside tinned food.

 

I can only stare at him, though, when, after showing tins of powdered milk meant _for me_ , he shows me a large box of… Well, the sample on his palm looks like a _pale-green_ chocolate-caramel-biscuit.

 

But if they’re only sweets, why’s he comparing it to the single box of frozen food he’s having on his lap? Are these somehow this place’s form of food rations? Like hardtacks or protein bars?

 

I’m ashamed, to be so dependent as to require this desperate measure. But I can’t deny the need and possibility for it. I can’t function as a civilised human being till I master the language.

 

I store this last hoard in my room, under the bed, instead of in the pantry. It should be a last measure for sustenance, but it’s also too important to leave lying about, even in a private home.

 

But thoughts of meals, home-keeping, learning and even the babies fly out of my mind when, on my return, Llobee solemnly, gently presses a “code cylinder,” this place’s version of a key, into my hand.

 

The house’s key, to be exact; I recognise the metallic moss-green colouring, different from the yellow car-key. This is it, then? He’s going now? But he’s shaking his head…

 

He beckons me out of the kitchen. We part in the vestibule, as he enters his room and I slip into mine to store the house-key. My hand is occupied again, though, not quite willingly, on exiting it.

 

The thing that he presses into it just as solemnly… I turn it all about shakily. Sensations invade me, as my fingers close on what I know to be the handle, in a _familiar_ ready position, on their own accord.

 

I’m drowning in the smells of ozon and sweat and burns, the cacophony of yells and screams and zinging sounds, the feelings of desperation and determination and all-round exhaustion…

 

A large, warm hand wraps gently round my own, pushing my pointer finger away from the trigger of the pistol, even as the other squeezes my trembling shoulder.

 

I look up at him. He murmurs something to me, but doesn’t bother to clarify it with gestures. He looks… sad, and knowing, just like in other occasions when these sensations surfaced.

 

I gulp back the bile that rises up my throat. My breath hitches. I thought the episodes were a side-effect of whatever brought me here yesterday, and it would dissipate by today at least.

 

I was free of them, until now. I… I _hate_ these episodes. I’m not a _freak_! How can I remember these things? I don’t even like watching battle action films! And bullets don’t  burn people and things.

 

Llobee takes me into his arms and hugs me tight, but he still doesn’t let me return the pistol back to him. Instead, he shows me how to exchange its “power cells” and recharge its power unit, as if…

 

I swallow again, halting the escaping bile midway. He wants me to _use_ this. I never even held such an obvious tool of destruction, despite those freaky sensations, and he wants me to _use_ it.

 

But, if _uninvited guests_ came a-calling… A lone house separate from the others, occupied only by a young woman and three day-old babies, with at least _two hundred Credits_ lying about…

 

I retract the pistol, which I previously proffered to him, back to my side. He sighs, slumps, and gives me a sadder look, as if he also wishes this weren’t necessary. I look away, and return to the kitchen.

 

Only as I retake my seat do I realise that the pistol is still gripped in my hand, and that I actually feel safer with it on my person. Principles can’t intervene when primal instincts take role, it seems.

 

I force myself to let go of the pistol, to put it on the table and _not look at it_. I play with Lita’s fingers instead, as she’s the only triplet awake at present. She coos at me, as I tickle her palm with a finger.

 

I was holding a pistol. I am holding a day-old baby’s hand. Extreme opposites. Strange, and ironic, if these opposites can ever be linked with each other, especially in such a peaceful, isolated spot.

 

But my mind can somehow do it, in various ways. Gruesome ideas taunt me. I curse my imaginativeness now, which usually just spins stories to amuse myself, to help me escape reality.

 

Very, very painfully ironic, that now I’m in a _different_ reality, in the flesh, undeniably, undoubtably. Maybe what the adage says is true: “Be careful what you wish for; you might just get it.”

 

Soon, though, Lita’s eyes droop, and I don’t have the heart to prevent her from a good nap for my selfish reason. I caress the soft top of her head, covered by downy strands of black wavy hair.

 

I begin to understand now, the tales in which mothers sacrifice themselves or even kill to save their children. I doubt I can do either, now, but the urge is definitely there, and I’m beginning to see.

 

There are _principles_ , and there are also _primal instincts_. One can overcome the other, both can go in tandem, but only the moment will tell to which direction the action will lead.

 

The edges of my lips lift up a little, as three tiny forms continue to slumber before me; perhaps sad, perhaps bitter, I don’t even know, myself. All I know is that I _shan’t_ abandon them.

 

I don’t look up, when I hear the tapping of footsteps on the floor of the vestibule, approaching sedately. I don’t look up, either, when a familiar large gentle hand lands on my shoulder.

 

Llobee says something that involves the word “me,” but it’s not hard to decipher what he’s communicating. He was never this… timid, this unsure. I tear away my gaze from the triplets at last.

 

I look him up and down. Shiny black boots, neat black trousers, decorated grey shirt with shoulder patches, and now I even notice the phone and pistol on his belt. It’s true, then? He’s going away?

 

Hell, whom am I kidding? The truth has never hit me in the face so hard. He’s a soldier, priorly on leave, now suddenly recalled back to duty. And from his tone, he’s requesting a personal farewell.

 

I stand up, skirt my stool, and give a last glance to the triplets before exiting the kitchen. As long as he doesn’t mean it intimately, I don’t mind. It’s the least I can do. He’s become a dear friend.

 

Maybe, I occupy a similar position, in his heart? I daren’t speculate. But still, who’d expect more than a short impersonal good-bye from a total stranger you’d met only about a day ago?

 

We end up just standing beside his car for a while, however, both tongue-tied and frozen. There is something… odd… in his eye that I can see. But I prefer to memorise its lovely aquamarine colour.

 

And then, abruptly, he goes down to one knee and hugs me tight, pressing his forehead against my lips with a feverish murmur. And just as suddenly, he flees into the car and speeds away.

 

I’m left staring at the pristine grass of the front lawn, frozen in a stupour for a different reason than shared awkwardness. And perhaps strangely, I’m trying not to cry.


End file.
